


thoughts (i cannot fathom)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Series: These Things I Cannot Say [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Can be read as a stand alone, Dork Lovers Server Prompt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Medical, Miscommunication, Pining, Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Slash, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: Brian's soulmates think he's dying. They don't know what to do about his soulmark.





	thoughts (i cannot fathom)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is inspired by both this week's server prompt and a particularly angst minded anon on my blog. So here we are. Uh. Angst heavy? Enjoy!

The words hide behind shaky guitar solos. He finally got permission from his doctor saying that he was healthy enough to go back to the studio. Brian accepted the endorsement with a grateful-plastered sort of smile and buries the dull ache in his stomach.

Freddie has bitten the bullet and kept the words balled up in soiled hospital fabrics. They pretend nothing happened, that he hadn’t embraced death and breathed out last words. He wouldn’t wish to have died, but this liminal space they’ve bubbled themselves in will burst.

Instead, he hides shaking hands under threading chords, his hands never hesitate on the neck of the Old Lady.

The trembling only comes when he fails to keep down the sandwiches Crystal bought them for the third day in a row. No one spares him a second glance when he returns and discards the rest of his meal.

Freddie struts about in front of them jumping octaves and holding runs until his throat is raspy and he’s out of breath.

Brian ignores the searching looks Freddie sends the three of them when he’s two bottles in and bowing under the pressure of having to deliver on this next album. Queen will die if they don’t.

John forges steadily on with bass lines and new confidence in writing songs while bouncing around to a rhythm that runs.

They both pretend that John’s eyes don’t drift down his body searching for a secret only he seems to know. In the quiet spaces between them, that used to be forced tension and newness, have turned into a bitter taint of forbidden knowledge. John hates not knowing things, but Brian knows he often wonders at the price of the knowledge.

Roger sparks to anger more quickly but he also sparks inspiration in the three of them with constant drumming.

He knows Roger hates him and they both act like he doesn’t. Brian sees the enmity in the gaze searching for answers on his face. They don’t click as well as they used to, and Roger takes the loss and funnels it into broken drumsticks and ruined walls.

He can wave away his lethargic mood with a blanket of comforting words. The recovery took a lot out of him and now he’s back to pulling twelve hours in the studio at once. Sharp eyes and tight words pin the not-quite-lies for what they are, but they swallow the poison all the same.

The very same poison Brian has been swallowing his entire life. He becomes paranoid about the marks and covers them up with paint and dark shirts as if it can rebuild the burnt down house and call it the same.

When he stumbles once in rehearsals, overcome with dizziness he knows is from only managing one glass of water in six hours, he worries that he pushed too hard at this bubble. Roger’s drumming skips a beat but picks back up, Freddie hadn’t seen, and John bounces his way over.

They share a conversation with their eyes. Brian wonders how much of the truth is apparent there. He’s not getting better but he can’t tell if it’s all in his head or if this is what people mean when they say their loved ones never left the hospital. The second coming of stolen months he shouldn’t have been afforded.

Its all dramatic and it feels easier to hide it in the dirty linens with the secret that they all know but won’t broach.

Then Paul in a moment of concern, genuine _he’s always genuine that’s the problem,_ pushes harder at the bubble than Brian has dared to.

“Have you lost weight?” Paul asks hip cocked into the door frame, “wardrobe wants to know since you keep complaining that pants they send are too big on the waist and the shirts hang more than is flattering.”

Roger’s head whips up, and blue eyes lose that casual disinterest he works so hard to maintain. John crosses his arms and seems to be waiting. Freddie leans back against the couch but Brian doesn’t buy the idea that he’s still drifting off to a nap.

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t _know,_ not in facts and data but he can guess based on copper bile and half a package of crackers that he’s been working at for four days. It’s hard not screaming when everyone buys it. Brian doesn’t know why he wants to, this is his problem no one else needs to care about it.

They’re all content in ignoring the problem that involves all of them. It makes sense they’d ignore this too.

That night he doubles over with alternating burns in his stomach and ribs. He should’ve fought harder to stay away from the recording studio to let the wounds of lying and hiding scab over. Tears streak down his cheeks and he can’t tell why he’s crying. Physical pain? Emotional pain? Both?

The words brace in his chest the next morning. He steps into the kitchen where John and Roger are laughing about something and Freddie watches on with a fond smile. It stops when they notice him and his side screams straight into his heart A neutral tired expression paints itself on his face. A plate is set out for him, carefully clear of greasy food and meat.

His stomach revolts and this time he can’t hide the grimace. Roger notices it because it always seems like his eyes are on Brian’s face these days.

“Okay there, Bri?”

The phrasing feels awkward as if they haven’t had a casual conversation like this in ages. Since he joined the recording its all been a very formal “Good Morning Brian” and on good days he got a follow up “how’d you sleep?”

He usually answers back in kind and uses a “decent” to conceal his tired rasp like he uses concealer on the dark circles.

“Morning queasiness.”

Again, they accept his not-quite-lie at face value. How long has it been since they called his bullshit out on him? If this is them being delicate with him, he’d rather them go back to normal. He ignores the plate and heads out to the barn. His knees shake with the effort to keep him upright. Had he even been able to drink his water this morning?

Brian sinks down on the couch in the recording booth. Not trusting himself enough to pick up the Red Special and play anything. Even laying on the couch he can see the way his fingers shake he closes them into a fist, but it only makes the trembling more noticeable. His nails biting into his palm help pull away from the pain from his naval, even if his side is determined to kill him with the secret they all know.

His throat tightens and he’s on his feet and moving towards the outside of the barn. Away from the side of the house. He takes only a step before his entire body convulses and forces out the food he hasn’t eaten. Brian closes his eyes and leans against the wood. He rubs the back of his hand across his lips.

When he looks down he sees streaks of red. Brian glances around as if one of his bandmates will materialize out of thin air and chastise him for keeping more secrets. Instead, he wipes it on his jeans, they’re dark and he’s so grateful they’re dark and goes back inside. This is just another thing he has to bury.

Roger sends him a wary look, for the first time not tainted with disdain, as he enters. Freddie coos something about him needing to eat something or being pale. John comes over to him.

“Are you really okay to record today? We don’t need you today.”

Brian closes his eyes and swallows the tears and acid. His mouth turns wet instead. He pushes himself up from the couch and away from John’s gentle eyes.

“Yeah, it’ll pass.”

He’s not sure it will. This will follow him to the grave. Brian won’t break their trust a second time by forcing onto to them the knowledge they shouldn’t have. He grabs the Red Special and drops the strap over his shoulders. His thighs quake and he manages to stumble through Death on Two Legs.

Freddie keeps checking him by looking over his shoulders every time he settles for a less complicated note series. He finishes the song, and barely feels the rush of wrong in his body. The Red Special manages to be placed on the stand seconds before his world pitches black.

* * *

John’s hatred of hospitals starts to make sense. Roger leans back against the waiting room chairs and tries to not think about how much it echoes the visit from the previous months. Except that this time Brian hadn’t been hiding symptoms from them, this came out of nowhere.

A small voice in his head tells him that he might’ve missed it because he didn’t want to think about Brian getting sick so soon after leaving the hospital. He thinks about how tired Brian has been lately.

Roger closes his eyes and fights back the frustration. Why hadn’t Brian told them that he wasn’t feeling well? Especially after what happened last time he hadn’t told them.

He figures there’s probably a lot Brian hasn’t told them recently.

“I don’t understand how he could be sick again?” Freddie asks.

Roger bites his check and closes his fist. He thought maybe he was imagining it, but thinking back on it, Brian hasn’t really come back to them since that night in the hospital. Knowing things can’t make bad things happen, but to taunt it so carelessly? It’s no wonder they’re back here again.

“Because he told you!” Roger yells, “he told you because he thought he was dying and then he didn’t!”

Freddie rears back, “you honestly think we’re back here because he told me? I haven’t told either of you what I saw?”

“Then what other explanation is there? Brian doesn’t smoke, he’s cut back on his drinking, and eats healthier than all of us. Why are we back here?”

“Because of bad luck,” John adds, “Freddie knowing or not knowing wouldn’t have changed if we came here or not.”

Roger wants to scream. He has a pretty guess as to whose name is on Brian’s chest, and he knows how easily Brian gets stuck in his head. This isn’t the universe’s direct punishment for breaking the secret, but it's related. Freddie not owning up to it and Brian getting lost in his head. It’s a recipe for disaster.

“Why’d you even let him tell you? You weren’t going to do anything with it if he made it!” Roger yells.

“Because he thought he was dying and didn’t want to die with that burden.”

“No,” Roger snaps, “you were going to let him give up. He had. It’s by medicine alone we got him back, and now it looks like it is his thoughts that will do him in.”

“Don’t talk like that,” John whispers.

“It’s true. Brian wouldn’t have been so withdrawn if Freddie didn’t know. Maybe we wouldn’t have missed the signs.”

“You’re speaking like there were signs to miss,” Freddie shoots back, “you’re not placing the blame on me.”

“He hid the fact that his arm was rotting and that his liver was failing. Why wouldn’t he hide this if he felt like he couldn’t trust us?”

Freddie opens his mouth when John interrupts.

“It’s just bad luck.”

Roger explodes. He flings the chair he had previously been sitting on across the waiting room floor. Heat fills his cheeks as tears rise in his eyes.

“Why the hell is it him? What has he done?” Softer now, “why has he given up?”

Without waiting for an answer, he storms out. The doors are automatic and don’t give him the pleasure of flinging one open or slamming one shut. He stomps a few paces away and fumbles for a cigarette. His hands are shaking too much and his lighter drops to the concrete. It bounces away, and while it’s intact, he starts sobbing.

Roger bites down into the filter of the cigarette and crouches down in heaving gasps. His hands go into his hair and he tugs. People stare and he can feel the pity in their gaze. What else are they supposed to think, a man sobbing only five meters from the door of the A&E?

At least they don’t ask him if he’s Roger Taylor.

He should’ve asked Brian if they were soulmates before Fred even got the chance to break the rule.  Three words formed from four syllables could have spared his soul one lash of pain. _Are we soulmates?_

When he can’t cry anymore, he just states blankly at the road. Someone places a jacket around him, and he almost asks Brian what he’s doing out here. But no. It’s John who is carefully avoiding his gaze.

“He hasn’t given up,” John says after a couple of minutes.

“He did. It was like, he knew he was going to die, no matter what the doctors did,” Roger mumbles, “now we’re here again.”

“Because he told Freddie?”

“No, because he invited it on himself by telling Freddie.”

“And if he had told you or me? If hypothetically, you were the name on his chest.”  
“I would’ve held him tighter,” it’s a lie, but it makes him feel better.

“And I would’ve too,” John says dryly, “except we aren’t the names on his chest and Freddie didn’t act any differently than how we would’ve.”

“He lets Brian get into his head too often,” Roger whispers, “you can’t let him, it’s hard to get him out again.”

“And you fight with Brian too much,” John shrugs, “and I ignore him too often. It’s not like any of us are saints.”

“There was a priest once, around the same time that Galileo was imprisoned for saying the earth revolved around the sun, that said only bad thing happen to a bearer when they tell because we think a bad thing is going to happen.”

“Didn’t take you to be religious.”

“‘m not, really. I was a choir boy, had to learn some of it.”

“And maybe he was right,” John shrugs, “that Brian might be dying, again, because the only way he was going to tell would be on his deathbed. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t try to make Freddie ask him.”

 “Because it’s Brian,” Roger snorts, “he’d still think that being soulmates with him would be too much, that there’s someone less depressed, less spacey, less stubborn.”

 John nods, “let’s go back inside?”

Roger doesn’t want to. He nods.

Freddie glances to him in a look of anger-ridden guilt. Roger tilts his head down. The fury is tucked away under a bleeding heart. There’s no use in hiding it, but there’s no use in letting himself wound with it. With the sharpness of his anger dulled the pressure of his worry and hurt builds in his chest. He feels the urge to laugh, but he bites it down with a copper tang.

John sits between them, back rigid and darting eyes. Roger crosses his arms and stares at the doors.       He wonders if they’ll have to fight for the right to visit Brian now that they aren’t on tour and their medical proxies are invalid. Ruth and Harold will probably let them.

Fuck have they even told his parents?

Hopefully, someone will think about it because he doesn’t have the energy to have that conversation. He has the impulse to smoke another cigarette, but then he remembers that his lighter is on the sidewalk. The fancy one Brian got him for his birthday is in his breast pocket, but he might handle it worse if he drops it. Silver and heavy but somehow more fragile.

Roger wants to go home and sleep. Rage bubbles beneath his skin, it’s exhausting fighting it down. Every time he fights down an explosion (be it in genuine anger or anxiety-taint) grief slips through the cracks and with that the bitter taste of tears. He’s not sure what he’s grieving for.

He hasn’t lost anything.

* * *

John watches Roger crumble under the weight of his emotions. There’s something admirable in it, despite the spasm it causes in his heart. Roger is unafraid to feel, and braver still, he’ll feel for someone else. He shows how he’s feeling, but at the same time, it leaves him raw and naked.

It’s a difficult way to live. John’s own emotions are neatly hidden in layers of words. To feel that clearly is something he won’t be able to do again. It nearly destroyed him the last time, and he won’t be able to rebuild himself again. Freddie, Roger, and Brian would help him. Without Brian, though, Roger would implode and Freddie would fall off the track.

He doesn’t want to listen to Roger’s panic-poisoned words about Brian having given up and this is the end, but it makes sense in the way you know what’s going to happen to the speeding car meeting a train. Brian, who had given no indication that he was a bearer, at the twilight end of his health he spoke his secret.

There’s no mistake as to why Roger thinks Brian had given up. In that exact moment, John had seen the same thing. Now months away from charged emotions and breaking hearts, he sees that Brian had _truly_ thought he would die. There was no lack of will, but an understanding of his odds.

Brian has always been good at math, just like John has been good at building things. This time he doesn’t know where to begin. People aren’t machines. There aren’t wires he could cut and solder and replace. He wants to shake Freddie until they’re both weak and red. Freddie _knows_ the name _,_ but they all know the name that is on Brian’s chest. It’s not hard to balance an equation when you have all the numbers there.

In a horrible turn, it’s the simplest thing about Brian May.

Neither he nor Roger have the will to out-stubborn Freddie, Brian does, but Brian will break his own back before becoming a burden to someone. John hates that there’s a universe of possibilities out there, and this is the one he deals with. John won’t speak for Roger no matter how kin their spirits are; however, there’s a scenario out there in which he loves Brian without restraint and without blighted words.

In this scenario, he’s left with the thought that he _could_ love Brian May if only it was his name on his chest.

Roger also has access to those same worlds. Roger _could_ bring himself to love Brian May if his name was on his chest.

Why do words have so much power? John has seen Freddie move himself and their fans to whichever emotion their songs feel that night, but he doesn’t understand the why behind it. Take the doctor coming towards them, he thinks (his chest is already opened what should stop him from rubbing salt into it), the man could ruin their entire world with just six words made from eight syllables. _I’m sorry, he didn’t make it._

Roger’s emotions whip around him like a typhoon. His eyes flick from the ethereal blue of lightning to the steel gray of cloud walls. Freddie’s emotions that he doesn’t want to feel get buried by an endless passion for life, his body steady as stone or has uncertain as the ground is after a landslide.

John supposes he and Brian formed the middle of the spectrum, swapping places from day to day who they’re nearer to. Lately, Brian has surpassed Freddie in not showing emotions and the disparity of how well they all feel things is obvious as Roger grows more unstable as the days start to grow short.

“Here for Brian May?” The doctor asks.

He’s got that tone in his voice that means it isn’t bad news, but he knows something that he doesn’t like. John hates it when they get that tone.

“Yes,” John answers because it seems like he’s the only one that remembers how to speak.

“He’s out of surgery, we were able to tie the artery off and patch the ulcer.”

An ulcer? Brian nearly died _again_ from an ulcer?

“Why?” Roger mumbles.

“Well, there’s no clear reason,” the doctor clears his throat, “it could that a recent high-stress situation could have aggravated it, but it was already present or what I believe is the more likely case is that the medications he was prescribed for his hepatitis aggravated it, and then when he stopped eating because of the pain but kept taking the medication, it only made it worse.”

“Wait,” John frowns, “stopped eating?”

They would’ve noticed that, right?

“His stomach showed signs going without food for several days, he was in the early stages of gastroparesis.”

They missed that.

He feels the surge from Roger before he sees the blond storm off and back outside. John wants to join him, be he still doesn’t understand what’s happened. Is it just bad luck and circumstances have made the ulcer an earlier problem than it would’ve been? Freddie folds in over himself and John let’s out a breath of relief.

It seems like they were able to fix this problem. There are so many more they have to figure out that can’t be fixed with a trip to the doctor. John isn’t sure where they even need to begin to get to the point where Brian doesn’t feel like he has to hide his illnesses from them.

They also need to get Freddie to own up to what he knows, the limbo he and Brian are in only added to the stress Brian was feeling.

“We can let one of you back into the recovery room, the others will have to wait until we get an admitting room,” the doctor clears his throat, “we’d like to keep him for observation for a few days and slowly reinstate a solid food diet.”

John looks at Freddie. Freddie looks at him.

“Go, I’ll get Roger.”

It makes the most sense after all.

* * *

Freddie hates uncertainty. Unpredictability is something he craves, but when he’s uncertain that’s where things get messy. Messy enough to apparently put his best friend in the hospital for the second time.

He hates knowing too much. It takes the surprise out of things. Letting Brian tell him the names on his chest was the greatest comfort that he could give at the time. Brian had been hurting so much, and all he wanted was to not die with the secret.

Freddie hadn’t expected three names. He hadn’t hoped for his to be there. Except there are three names and his is there. There’s no way to move forward with that knowledge cording around his throat and dragging him below the surface. They could never have a stable relationship without the other two, and the other two are so mired down with their expectations of soulmates that they won’t wash away the mud and _see._

It’s hurting Brian in the long run, but it isn’t his secret to tell. In his parent’s culture, telling someone you are soulmates is a private intimate truth that only those people know. He wants to tell Roger and John, but there’s never been a good time and Brian… well, Freddie doesn’t know where Brian’s head is.

If he searched the stars for a thousand years, then he might be able to find where Brian goes.

Until then, he will remain as murky as constellations in London lights. Visible but you don’t know the pattern.

Brian is awake when he enters. Freddie isn’t sure if that’s a good thing yet. He’s not sure where he needs to lead this conversation. There won’t be convincing Brian to tell them, and Roger and John won’t open their ears to it, afraid of what misfortune will befall them or Brian. Perhaps that is the greatest misfortune yet.

That they’ll never be able to be whatever the words on Brian’s chest promise that they could be.

“How do you feel?”

Is that neutral enough? Too detached? Freddie wonders when he started doubted what words he could say to Brian. Four words formed by five syllables could change their course projection for a hundred years.

“Floaty.”

“Eloquent.”

Brian grins and Freddie thinks he never saw how beautiful Brian’s smile is. It brightens his face and softens his eyes. Roger might be described as the angel of the band, fitting most western depictions of them, but Freddie thinks that Brian is as worthy for the compliment.

“I had a dream… but I want to make it a song.”

Freddie sits on the edge of the bed, “yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He waits for a second and there are no words forthcoming, when he raises his eyebrow, Brian seems to remember that he’s meant to be speaking.

“It’s about the… a theory… about how if you go through a wormhole you could go through time, like in Star Trek… but astronauts get caught in one, but they don’t know.”

Freddie has no idea how any of this can translate to a song, but if anyone could make it one, it’d be Brian. He squeezes Brian’s calf.

“So, they come back, and a hundred years have passed, so everyone they loved or mean to love has died. And they have to live with that.”

Sometimes Brian is a little too revealing in his songs. Freddie is guilty of that too, but sometimes the songs are a little too on the nose.

“What’ll you call it?”

“Not sure yet, don’t really know what it sounds like. I know the feeling.”

“Well, we still have spots on the album,” Freddie says.

Brian nods, “don’t know if it’ll be finished.”

The air grows tense with expectation. Freddie knows that he could push now and change things, but he worries Brian might resent him for taking advantage. An ache of certainty rings around the idea that if he doesn’t push, they’ll never broach the subject again.

He doesn’t know which the kinder fate is. Freddie knows he could love Brian romantically. It’s possible that John and Roger could too. Maybe they were never meant to love each other romantically or maybe only one is. It could be any combination of possibilities. Brian would know the formula to figure it out.

Freddie has always been brave with his own heart, but Brian isn’t. He looks away and taps an unformed rhythm out on Brian’s shin. They can’t risk Queen, but they can’t risk Brian. There are no winners this day.

Until they all know, he can’t- won’t change this dance they do. Brian doesn’t seem inclined too, but maybe he should ask.

“I’m sorry I told you,” Brian whispers, “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve known I would be fine.”

Freddie closes his eyes and hides the budding hope-flower back in his bones.

“You shouldn’t apologize.”

“Things aren’t the same.”

“Things don’t stay the same.”

If he doesn’t let Brian explain why then Freddie knows that it can’t hurt the others. Brian knows best how to handle the polluted truth. Brian is the still water above the riptide, ever gentle and ever-changing. Something to trust but then once you’re too close you can’t fight against it.

Freddie doesn’t want to. He’ll let the electrified truth dangle above the water and only drop it when there is less at stake. They aren’t kids surviving on sauce packets anymore but they’re still fighting for a scrap of recognition.

They’re all dammed one way or the other. Freddie thinks about their dreams; how much they crave the attention and spotlight. How good they are.

In the end, it’s his natural selfishness that wins out. He’s wanted this, Queen, ever since he could sing. Balancing this fragile sweet thing when they’re on the precipice of greatness. The band would self-destruct. They’re self-destructing individually, Roger’s anger. John’s nerves. Brian’s burden. His impulses.

If they have Queen, they can all ignore it for a little while longer. He can take the seconds bought and turn them to years. Then maybe, once they’re at the top they can figure this out.

“We’ll get through this,” Brian murmurs.

Freddie is nearly ashamed to say he’s grateful Brian made the choice for them.

“Of course, we’re family.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha, this hurt.  
> It didn't get resolved. Sometimes it be that way.  
> Sorry for the jarring style swap.  
> As always, leave your thoughts below or come talk to me on tumblr!


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